


Put the Blame on VCR

by KDblack



Series: they say someone killed the radio star [3]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Lucifer's A+ parenting, M/M, Multi, Other, deliberate pushing of an ace person's boundaries, mentions of Angel Dust/others, mentions of vox
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack
Summary: “She comes up here with that smug little smile and starts screeching about rainbows and puppies. Rainbows and puppies! No plan, no backing, just 'hope for the best.' As if that ever worked for anyone!” Katie's smile drips away, replaced by glaring red eyes and gnashing teeth. “You think hoping for the best does shit, you little brat? Try working in the news for a change! And to top it all off, she's made her first 'trial case' none other than Angel Dust!”Lucifer tilts his head and blinks slowly. “Who?”“Never mind, no one cares. And then she–”“Wait, I think I remember now.” Lucifer snaps his fingers. “Didn't he play the Radio Demon in one of those porn parodies once?”(Lucifer torments his daughter, Angel Dust belatedly realizes he does know Alastor from somewhere, and Alastor mops up loose ends.)
Relationships: Alastor & Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel), Charlie Magne/Vaggie
Series: they say someone killed the radio star [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548754
Comments: 78
Kudos: 357





	1. Chapter 1

Every news channel in hell regularly sends out invites and requests for appearances to the king, even though ninety percent of the time, Lucifer cannot be reached for comment. The topic doesn't matter – he just likes to leave people in the lurch. On the rare occasion he deigns to accept, he invariably shows up the second the broadcast begins, throwing everything into terrified disarray. The inhabitants of hell are, as he has often stated, gleefully and in public, “such a bunch of disrespectful assholes I should just turn the lot of you over my knee and snap your fucking spines.” Most of them, however, are smart enough to realize that antagonizing the being hell was created to contain is a very poor career move.

When Lucifer pops up beside her just as the cameras turn on, Katie Killjoy freezes in place, each of her eyes wider than Cherri Bomb's one. The hideous grimace on her lips would make Alastor snicker. Idly, Lucifer wonders if the Radio Demon is tuned in. Unlikely. He'll have to send the deer boy – ha! – a personal copy.

Tom recovers first. Lucifer can tell his mouth is open behind the mask because of the fountain of insincerity pouring out. “Your majesty! What a wonderful surprise to have you on the show.”

Lucifer grins lazily. “Stuff it, you little bootlicker, or I'll make your filter produce its own tear gas.” 

The co-host snaps a salute and remains quiet. Good boy. 

Katie clears her throat. “Good evening, your majesty, wonderful to have you on the show, please do not make anyone explode on my dress.”

“No promises.”

“R-right then.” The anchorwoman coughs and looks back at the camera. Seems like she's healed up since her... altercation with Charlie. Too bad, Lucifer thinks. She has the kind of smug face that looks better bloody. Or ripped off. 

“Now, Katie, I understand you had my daughter as a guest on your show recently.” He lets out a deep sigh. “I haven't been able to watch the broadcast yet, but be honest with me. Did she sing?”

Katie rallies in less than a second. Nice show of compartmentalization. If it was anyone else doing it, Lucifer might be impressed. “Did she sing, he asks! Of course she sang! What else was she going to do?”

“Good question.” Lucifer sighs and rubs his temples. Judging by the screeching, Katie isn't done yet.

“She comes up here with that smug little smile and starts screeching about rainbows and puppies. Rainbows and puppies! No plan, no backing, just 'hope for the best.' As if that ever worked for anyone!” Her smile drips away, replaced by glaring red eyes and gnashing teeth. “You think hoping for the best does shit, you little brat? Try working in the news for a change! And to top it all off, she's made her first 'trial case' none other than Angel Dust!”

Lucifer tilts his head and blinks slowly. “Who?”

“Never mind, no one cares. And then she–”

“Wait, I think I remember now.” Lucifer snaps his fingers. “Didn't he play the Radio Demon in one of those porn parodies once?”

Katie freezes up mid-sentence. “I – what?” 

“Yes, I'm sure that was the name in the credits.” A sage nod. “He made a terrible deer demon, but he did have a certain air of abused vulnerability about him with that glassy, drugged-up smile. Completely failed at selling the danger of his character, though. Someone shoved a finger in his mouth thirty seconds into filming and he didn't even try to bite it off. What was the film called...”

“Please stay on topic,” Katie hisses, all her anger covered up with a huge, fake grin. It only makes her look more punchable.

“Let's see...” Lucifer hums.

Five more seconds of stalling. That's all it takes for Katie to snap. She slams both hands on the desk, barbed spider limbs hunched over her shoulders and pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Then she actually yells at him. “If you finish that sentence, we are all going to die!”

He snaps his fingers again, his face lighting up with unholy glee. “Trash Cervid Twink Demolished By Modern Technology! That was it! Awful film, very entertaining. I should really dig up my copy and watch it again.”

The lights on set flicker. Katie's mouth moves, but only static comes out. She shoots to her feet and begins to scream. It's the cue to begin a stampede. Tom drops to the floor and crawls. The cameraman drops the device and runs for his life. Lucifer stays exactly where he is, an island of placid calm, watching the chaos through eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. An especially harsh squeal of static shrieks directly into his ear. He smiles, absently plugging his ear before the blood can stain anything. So the Radio Demon was watching after all.

“Really, Alastor,” he murmurs, “what did you expect? I'm a simple creature. A pretty thing like you goes out of his way to destroy every copy of a tape, I'm guaranteed to take an interest.”

Under the table, an unfamiliar shadow roils and snaps at his toes.

“Well, of course I know it's inaccurate. Didn't I just get done criticizing your portrayal?” He pauses, considering. “Though if you wanted my full criticism, I wouldn't mind expanding. Acting aside, that video really did fail to utilize anything to the fullest. It might as well have been a pornographic ad for televisions. And that's not even touching the shocking absence of shadow doppelgangers or tentacles...”

The shadow stabs up through the desk and breaks the abandoned camera in half. Lucifer gazes distantly at the shattered lens before letting out a theatrical sigh. 

“All right, fine. I'll hold off.” His grin spreads wider, sickly, twisted. “For now.”

He'll bring it out again in a decade or two, once Alastor has been lulled into a false sense of security. Or whenever his daughter next tries to celebrate her 'success story.' Whichever comes first. He rises to his feet with a cheery hum, dodging the pockets of crackling malevolence in the process of setting up shop in wreckage of the studio. Such a nice addition. Very atmospheric. He just wants to pat them all on their little staticky heads.

A siren begins shrieking outside. It's barely audible over the screams. Lucifer smiles. Every occasion benefits from the presence of a pissed off Radio Demon. And the main attraction isn't even here! He can only imagine the gorgeous shitstorm that must be going down in the hotel right now.

Really, he thinks, whistling cheerfully, Charlie should thank him for being so considerate.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie has never wanted to strangle her father as much as she does right now. Not when she was six hundred and he turned all her hair into snakes after she admitted she was scared of slithery reptiles. Not when she was just past a thousand and he made her take a tour of the worst parts of hell to 'make sure she knew how things worked.' Not even when she finally got the courage to tell him about her dream a hundred years ago and he responded by laughing and then setting her on fire.

It isn't like she hates him. She has plenty of good memories of her dad! Admittedly, most of them involve screaming and the taste of blood, but still. He's always been there for her when she has nightmares, he'd drop everything if she started crying as a kid, and she's never, ever doubted he would destroy anyone who hurt her, even after the whole cremation incident. But the Radio Demon is standing very still behind her, his arms crossed on the back of the couch she's sitting on, and he is, for lack of a better word, crackling in and out of existence. His eyes have gone pixellated. His smile is stretching off his face and into the air around it. All the sound in the room is simultaneously muffled and screeching. And it's all her dad's fault.

So yeah, right now, Charlie could happily kick her dad into a volcano.

Beside her, Angel Dust is gawking shamelessly at the TV. “Holy shit, I don't remember any of that. Charlie, did you know about this?”

Charlie does not respond. She's too busy trying to figure out if a hug would calm Alastor down or make things worse. Despite the audio distortion – and, you know, face distortion – he seems... moderately calm right now. Or at least not actively trying to kill anyone, which she suspects is basically the same thing for Alastor.

“Vaggie. Vaggie, did you know?”

“Angel, shut up,” Charlie hisses through the corner of her mouth.

Angel does not shut up. Instead, he makes the worst decision of all time and slouches back against the cushions, tipping his head all the way back so he can make eye contact with the Radio Demon. “Al, you hearing this shit? Charlie's dad says I played you!”

"̸̗̤̄I̷̡͔̫̖̲̳͍̠͇̾͊̋̎̊͜ ̷̨̧̛̘͎̙̫̯͕̺̰̹̮̏̿̂̈̂̔̚h̸̖͠e̸̟̟̝̗̯̣̫̮͌̂͛̾̾̈̉́͊̚͠a̴̧͎̖̱̙͇̗̲̤̙̾̇̏͂̑̕r̶̨̡̲̭̥̰̜͕͙̟̥̟̬̙̳̒̈́d̸̝̣̞̙̝͓̙̦̦̒͂,̵̡̢̞͓̰͉̰͐͛̌̄͘ ̸̻̯̙̈́́A̸̝̗̮̻͕͈̩͓͚̅͂̐̓̋̾̆̇̚ǹ̸̳̼̺̿̊͝g̴̨̧̛̰͚̝̭̻̻̼̗̦̦̮̈́̌͂̑͜͝e̸̪͈̔̑̕l̴̢͔͉̠̥̥̝̓͊̃͐̽̄͆́͂͘͜͜.̶̹͕̝͐̃͑̇͛̓͘̚̚̕̕"̵̨̛͉̹̥̺͕͎̙̬̖͖͎̦͐̑̒̽̊̀

“That's just wild. Can't believe I had no idea. I must've been so high...” Angel laughs and shakes his head, still holding Alastor's gaze. Charlie has no idea how he's doing it. Is this a sign of a hidden reserve of strength and purity? Is he just that self-confident? Is he high right now?

...he's high right now, isn't he.

“A-Alastor, please don't do anything rash!”

The world blurs as Alastor tilts his head at an angle that makes Charlie's neck ache. 

"̷̡̛͈̰͓͔̃̊̒̈́̇ͅR̴̘̗̫͓̭̯̬̟̘̾̂̌̍̊̔̿̍̓a̷͖̳̲͈̖̟̳̟͊̔͝͠ṡ̷̻̦͓̖̑̓̽̀̽ẖ̵̡̖̪̻̲̀̒͌̀̃͜ͅ?̶̜̣̺͎̼̓̿"̵̧̢̗͎͙͙̞̭̱̊̅̈́͐̊̿́̄͠ he murmurs. "̷̢̡̠̜̉͌̆̏̊͗͘͝͠Ḏ̸̢͔̞̰̘͉̫̜̈́̓̇͆ẹ̵͎̤̠̣̩͇̜̓͗͌̅͗͛a̷̺͇̩̗̹̖͉͍̓̃̈́͘͜͝͠r̸̟̼͈̳̖̭̒͗͛̊͆̍̚ ̸̨͉̪̙͖̥̹̯͗͊̓͗͒́̑C̵̨̛̮̱͚̯̗̿̂͒̇̕h̷̢̥̦̻̎̍̈́̄a̸̧̱̺̦̻̕r̶̤̟̦̭̬̀̍̓̀͂̃̈̇l̴͓̲̤̊͜i̴̠̽̀̃ȩ̶͚̘̙̻̦̳̝͒̒̂̔̑̇̈,̷̡̬̪̜̣̺̗͈͉͂̂̏͘ ̴̛̞̤̲̟͓͑̄͒̎̓̓̇Į̴̹̫͖͈̳̈̒̂̄ ̸̞͈̟̫̺͊̆ȃ̸͎̫͕̠̫̫͓͎̒̀̌̃m̷̯̖͉̈̍̓̀͑ ̸͙͔͈̜͌̅͆́̈́̐̍͝n̷͎̟̫͓̼̓e̷͖̟̲̼̱͎̹̳̭͒̂͋͂͂̊͝v̵͖̱͓͉̙͕̾̌̾͒͊͗͜e̸̺͎̖̪͎̙̘͌̕r̶̢̢̮̤͚̗̙͚͑̀̔͌̅̓̏̆͘ ̶͖͍̮͖̳͈̹̬͐͆͂͝r̸̝̺̔͛̀͒͑̆̚a̵̪̤̅s̵̳̅ḧ̸̰͓̭̠͈̳́.̶͖̗̱̩̥̜̏͌̅"̵̡̧̤͔̥̿͛̆͑͠͝

“Okay!” she chirps, smiling like her life depends on it. “Okay, that's good! Let's just – focus on that and not on... anything else.”

Behind her, there's a soft click as Vaggie turns the TV off. Best girlfriend ever. Less than a second later, Angel sits up straight and pounds one of his fists into one of his hands.

“Wait!” he shouts. “I think I got it! Like fifteen years ago, in some burning warehouse district, sponsored by a guy with a screen for a face! I had no idea I was supposed to be playing you, Al. I mean, story and porn aren't usually on speaking terms, but wow was the writing for that one shit.” The couch groans ominously as he settles back down, chuckling. “That guy was super hands on, and not in the fun way.”

Charlie shushes him desperately. Angel ignores her with the comfortable ease of a demon who has never had to listen to their dad wax poetic about the things Alastor does when he's bored. 

"̶̼I̶̮s̵̩̣̿͗ ̸͇̀̏̇͝ͅt̷̢͎̓̀̆h̷͍̺̥̹͛̊͝ă̷̡̻̟̲̐ṯ̷͆̀͘ ̵̨̖͘s̴̋͋ͅo̴͕̟̓̽?̸̧͈̯̜͂"̴̠̱̤̪͋͐͘

“Yep,” Angel says, drawing the word out as far as it will go. “He was so insistent I wear this dumb monocle! Man, I hated that thing. Kept falling off no matter how much glue they put on it. Finally I just told them to have the tentacles make a show of snatching it away in the beginning and leave it just out of my reach. Was meaning to, you know, grab for it and stuff for dramatic effect, but I totally forgot once the fucking started.” He takes a moment to leer up at Alastor, because of course he does. “Gotta say, Al, I think you'd pull off the look they were going a lot better than I did.”

Charlie can't see it. But then, Alastor's face is now mostly composed of smile. And teeth. It's... not a bad look, per se, but it makes her brain wriggle in her skull like a nest of worms.

“̸̻͖̔̑Y̴͕̙̻͌o̷̘̹͝ṵ̷̗̲̈́͐̄ȓ̷̜̦̺͕̒ ̶̗̯̒ǫ̵̼̝̫͌̄p̴͎͇͓̫͆͆̾̉i̷̳͎̼̱̿̈́ņ̸͇͙̬͋̂͒i̶̟̳̝͑ȯ̸̳͂ņ̷͕͕̮̀̊͆̚ ̶̜̝̂̚h̸̲̻̲͐͜a̷̢͉̗̒͒š̶̻̥͉̗̏ ̵̛̞̠̦̑̿̚b̴̜̖̍̋̒ͅe̴͕̹̗͝e̶͊̕͜n̴̡̨͇̣̎̅ ̴̘̈̔n̷̲͓̦̋̑ö̵̡t̵̰̘̀͠e̶̱͓̣͚̓d̶̝͕̱̰͑̊͝ ̵̖͖̦͆͆̚a̴̛͓͔̬͝n̴̡͇̥̈́ḑ̵͔̦̪̍ ̵̛̣͎̼̫d̴͇͕̱̽̋̑̄ḭ̵̡̰͓͆̔͗š̷̡̮̋͑r̵̥̒͜ë̴͖́g̸͛̈́̈́͜ą̴̹͉͉̓͂͘ŕ̷̹̜͍̳̄d̷̗͒͂̉e̵͍͒͝d̸̟͠ͅ!̸̟̘͙̖̉ ̸͈́̔̈͛” he says grandly. “Ṇ̶̍ơ̷̼̗̒͌̑w̵̡̓̌ ̸̹̽͜͠k̸̢͚̋i̵͖͋̽̊n̵̩̩͂d̷̯̆l̶̨͓̘̪̅̆y̴̪̹̣̒̈̓̊ ̴̛͈̜̻̭͌̀̈s̴͕͔̜͠ḧ̶͇̩̞̠́̒ư̵̖̣̣̼̈͘̕t̸͔͇͔̎̊͐ ̶̞͝y̸̛͍͉͐͆ͅõ̴̥ṷ̴̄̋̈́͝r̷̬͎̯̊̈̓ ̸̡̟͎̂̃͑m̴̖̰̋̇o̴̬̖͍̦͋̐̃ǔ̴̟̜̜̮̃͗̊ẗ̴͙̟̞́̒̏h̷̳͚̃̈ ̶̹̬͉̽̏á̵̢̱̥̦̅n̷͚̎̈́ḍ̵̛̱͖̐ ̶̗͊͑͂l̶̙̱̥̂̉̎̍ͅȩ̴̛̭̥̊̿å̶̹̜̰v̶̛̖̫̪̤̀̏e̶̮̍̊ͅ ̶̣͉͎̊͛ẗ̷̡̰̪́̎̅̈́h̸̺̙̉͋ĕ̸̟͕̦̓̑̊ ̴̺͇̄p̷̻̔̑͊͝r̶̭̀̊e̶͎̩̋̽m̴̙̊i̵̗̱͓͑̌s̴͔͎̓e̴̼̒̕s̵͈͑̕.̵̜̝̫̻̔̂͠”̴̰̭͙̭͋͊̓

Angel frowns. “Al, I live here.”

“̵̳̹̮̩͂͐͋Ṇ̶͕̺̓͆͠o̵̩̦̭̺̒̌̉ẗ̶̖͙́̆͗ ̷̻̑ą̷̝̥͋̂n̴͔̄͋͐y̴̭͛̍̿̊m̶̹͂̋ǫ̸̯̥̅̕ȓ̴̺͍̜e̷̢̡͆͠!̶̧͠”̶̘͈͚̒͝

Okay, that's too much. Charlie draws herself up to her full height and stares at the blurry space where she assumes Alastor's eyes are. “Alastor, you can't just kick him out! I'm the one who invited Angel here.” Calm, calm. No weakness. “You're my business partner, not my boss. You do not have the right to remove Angel from the hotel.”

There's a moment of silence. Charlie holds eye contact – she hopes – but she is also vaguely aware of Vaggie behind her, mouthing the words 'do not sing.' Which is kind of silly! She isn't going to sing. In the short time she's known Alastor, she's come to suspect that anything she sings, he will later co-opt and use against her.

Finally, the distortion around his face settles into a slightly more natural grin. "̴P̵e̸r̵h̴a̸p̴s̸!̵ ̶H̸o̶w̷e̸v̷e̸r̶,̵ ̶I̵ ̵d̷o̷ ̵h̸a̴v̷e̴ ̸t̶h̸e̸ ̵m̷i̵g̵h̴t̴ ̸t̵o̴ ̵p̸h̴y̸s̴i̵c̷a̵l̷l̵y̸ ̶r̶e̷m̸o̷v̸e̶ ̷o̴u̸r̴ ̵s̴p̷i̴d̵e̵r̸y̵ ̸f̸r̶i̷e̴n̵d̸ ̴f̴r̸o̴m̶ ̶t̵h̵e̵ ̴p̸r̸e̶m̵i̵s̸e̷s̶.̶"̷

A slice of raw darkness opens up in the air above Angel. Before Charlie can do more than widen her eyes, an inky tentacle has dragged him inside. All that remains is a high-pitched shriek of “What the hell, Al?!” quickly fading into the still hotel air.

"̵D̶o̵n̴'̶t̴ ̴f̶r̶e̵t̵,̶ ̶h̶e̶'̸l̷l̶ ̶b̶e̵ ̵b̶a̶c̵k̵ ̴b̷e̴f̸o̸r̷e̶ ̸y̴o̸u̴ ̷k̵n̸o̶w̵ ̵i̵t̶.̸ ̶I̸ ̵j̵u̴s̴t̷ ̷h̵a̸v̷e̵ ̶a̶ ̸f̸e̵w̷ ̵t̴h̷i̸n̶g̶s̷ ̷t̸o̵ ̷t̵a̷k̵e̸ ̷c̵a̴r̵e̸ ̸o̷f̶ ̸f̸i̸r̶s̵t̷.̵"̴ Alastor nods brightly at Charlie and turns on his heel. "̴I̷t̸ ̴w̷o̵u̴l̸d̸ ̸b̴e̴ ̵a̸w̴f̸u̸l̸l̴y̶ ̴b̸o̵r̴i̶n̸g̸ ̷t̴o̶ ̵c̷a̵l̴l̷ ̵o̸f̵f̷ ̸t̵h̶i̶s̶ ̸e̷x̴p̶e̷r̷i̷m̸e̵n̵t̶ ̸n̷o̶w̷,̴ ̷a̴f̷t̵e̵r̴ ̴a̶l̸l̴.̸"̷

She stays where she is, trembling, eyes stinging. “That isn't reassuring at all!”

The door slams. The next thing Charlie knows, she's on the floor, and Vaggie is hugging her. Her girlfriend has the mercy, at least, not to say 'I told you so.' Not that what actually comes out of her mouth is any better.

“Was this an accident, or is your dad actively trying to sabotage us?”

Charlie laughs wetly. “I would love to know that.”

She needs to get up. Pocket dimensions aren't her demonic specialty, but if she can find the edges of Alastor's rip, she should be able to get it open again. He may be the Radio Demon, but Charlie's the princess of hell. Saving Angel should be child's play. She just has to figure out how.

Literally a split second later, the tear in reality opens up again and Angel comes tumbling out, looking slightly rumpled and very offended.

“Well, fuck you too, pal!” he yells at the retreating tentacles. “Learn to take a joke!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Alastor is saying:
> 
> "I heard, Angel."
> 
> "Rash? Dear Charlie, I am never rash."
> 
> "Is that so?"
> 
> "Your opinion has been noted and disregarded! Now kindly shut your mouth and leave the premises."
> 
> "Not anymore!"
> 
> "Perhaps! However, I do have the might to physically remove our spidery friend form the premises."
> 
> "Don't fret, he'll be back before you know it. I just have a few things to take of first. It would be awfully boring to call off this experiment now, after all."


	3. Chapter 3

“Really, Alastor, did you even see the film?”

Alastor hums, soft and scratchy, and lets Lucifer steer him backward. A smile like the crescent moon floats before him. White gloves swallow up his claws. They're waltzing, apparently. Alastor's ashamed to admit he's not familiar with this variant. He's somewhat less ashamed to admit he has no idea where he is or how he got here. When you've been on speaking terms with the devil for a century, you get used to the sudden and inexplicable changes of scenery.

“I have, as a matter of fact.” Most of it he watched through the cracks in his fingers, just like the good old days at the cinema, but he's watched it nonetheless. “One has to be informed before one can be properly furious.”

Lucifer's chuckle is dark and rich enough to choke on. His lazy stare slices right through Alastor's suit to the flesh and bone below. “But of course. I'm sure there was much to be furious about.”

Alastor laughs back, higher-pitched, the faintest bit strained. He loathes showing weakness, but they're entering a new set of steps now. If he ends up stomping on Lucifer's feet, he wants it to be intentional. “Well, it's Vox. You know how he is, your majesty.”

Everyone does, at this point. Vox has gone far out of his way to gather up a reputation. He's no Radio Demon, but he is... known. For better or for worse. No skulking in the shadows, building up power for him! No, Vox wouldn't settle for anything but an immediate presence in the turf wars. So he rules a sizable chunk of hell now. Good for him. Alastor has never actively taken up arms in gang warfare, yet he can still walk wherever he pleases, and no one will ever make the mistake of asking him to solve their problems in exchange for protection money.

Well, he thinks, side-eyeing his unexpected partner, almost no one. Putting anything beyond Lucifer would be a mistake. There are no lines the original rebel won't cross.

“You'd think he'd have done a better job,” Lucifer says thoughtfully. “Screens are his entire gimmick, and yet his pet project is just... not good.”

“Nope,” Alastor agrees. “Not as a film, not as propaganda, definitely not as an auteur's revenge fantasy. Perhaps that's the real point! Needling me with a lackluster picture that doesn't even bother to humiliate me properly. Really, he could've just called me up, said 'I'm better than you, Alastor', and saved himself hours of work.”

Lucifer digs his nails into Alastor's waist and pulls him close. Too close. “Or maybe Vox just can't direct, cast, or write for television.”

Alastor's grin slices his face open like a sickle. “Sympathy from the devil? Never thought I'd see the day.”

“No. This is just amusement.” 

After an uncomfortably long pause, they're moving again: Lucifer holding his hand hostage, Alastor fighting to keep his flying feet under control. Is this still a waltz? He doesn't know this dance at all. He's beginning to doubt he knows any dances. In his head, the entire concept of dance unravels.

“You've put your time among the damned to good use,” Lucifer purrs with hooded eyes. “I could hardly even recognize those pitiful creatures when you were finished.”

It's not flattery. Only the Executioners can kill the denizens of hell, but Alastor is feared for a reason. Scriptwriter, director, fluffer, cameraman, he bound them with their own intestines and fed wires directly into their nerves. Plucked the little bones from wrists, necks, and tails, then took a carving knife to what was left. Cannibalism is a necessity down here – it's not like there's anything else to eat – but like so many ugly things, it's been largely automated. Factories for the unlucky, the destitute, and those who can't run fast enough. There's a certain beauty to the mass slaughter, but he'll always prefer a personal touch.

“Finished?” A burst of laughter crackles in the air between them. “I won't be finished until I have Vox opened up and lobotomized with his own ribs! And even then, I may well come back for an encore.”

The devil's eyes brighten. They're thinking of the same image: piles upon piles of bodies, everyone ever involved with the production except the sponsor himself – and Valentino's crew, Alastor supposes – stacked up, intact, but empty. The wires keep them awake. He makes them watch as he strips the meat from their pretty little bones. Once the screaming has died down and the resigned apathy is settling in, he licks the blood from his lips and ramps up the static. His laughter fills their rotten brains until there's nothing left.

When the first cautious scavengers approach the bodies, it's over. The lights are on. Nobody's home.

Lucifer whirls Alastor to the side hard enough to break a neck. Alastor cracks it back into place and surges up with the next turn. They're moving faster now. 

“Has he gotten so deep under your skin?”

“Not at all!” Alastor chirps. “But he thinks he has. He's clapping himself on the back about it right now. The airwaves are crackling with arrogance, and smug isn't a good look on anyone.”

“I don't know,” Lucifer says, stroking the inside of Alastor's trapped wrist. “It's always been rather nice on you.”

Alastor takes advantage of a lull in the pattern and leans forward until his breath skims Lucifer's white face. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite. “My dear sir, I have never once been smug in my life.”

This time, the devil's laughter is bright and carefree. For a moment, Alastor can almost see him before everything, blessed, shining, terrible in his innocence. Then Lucifer starts talking again and the magic is lost.

Just as well. Alastor cannot say he's fond of the devil whose touch lingers too long, whose smiles make the dumb animal part of him freeze up, but he knows without a doubt that he'd despise the archangel.

The moment the thought crosses his mind, Lucifer rips him off his feet. Alastor reaches for his shadows on reflex. The world lurches. Burning hands catch him just above the floor. The warmth of them melts the darkness, banishes it beyond his reach. His ears brush the floor. This is the most aggressive dip he's ever experienced.

“I was disappointed to hear that you burned Valentino's copy,” the devil says, less than an inch from his throat.

Alastor can't see his captor from this angle. He looks up at the gilded bars of the ceiling instead and bares his teeth. “I rather thought I'd burned all of them. I was trying to send a message.”

“To Vox? How droll,” Lucifer murmurs into Alastor's collar. “He makes you reactive. I can't say I dislike it. But really, do you even recall where his grudge came from?”

“You assume that I ever cared to know.” 

He feels rather than hears Lucifer's gasp. Finally, thankfully, the devil raises his head into Alastor's view, tears of mirth prickling at his dead black eyes. “I'll throw the grandest of parties just to hear you say that to Vox!”

Alastor raises an eyebrow. Quite the offer from a man who loathes what hell has become. “Such a production! I can say it whenever, your majesty.”

“I want it on public record,” Lucifer counters, still cackling. “You promise, Alastor?”

“But of course. I do try and keep my word.” Despite his position, Alastor leers. “Perhaps I'll use his voice box. After all, he won't be needing it when I'm through with him.”

One day, he won't be able to defuse things. One day, Lucifer isn't going to stop until he picks Alastor apart. But today, the devil straightens up and releases him to wipe away a tear. “Well, now you've doomed us both! Your invitation will be sent out within the week. Do try and get the disembowelment at a good angle – I want to watch it with Lilith when she's home.”

“I shall do my best,” Alastor says. Then, with a flourish, he turns on his heel and steps into darkness. Only when he's safely within his own shadowy realm does he allow himself to start shaking. 

He gives himself a few minutes to rally before he leaves. There's things to do, people to torture into catatonia, messes to clean up. But right now, the world has narrowed down to the sense-memory of Lucifer's touch and the ugly, confused throbbing inside his skull. He should be feeling something right now. He isn't, or at least, not properly. Half of him wants to forget this, bury it, dance gleefully on the grave. The other half...

“Really,” Alastor sighs, “things would be so much simpler if that man would just take what he wants.”


End file.
